The Mistake
by this is only a test
Summary: "The gun's on the nightstand. It's shining and gleaming, like the light at the end of a meandering tunnel. It's hope; it's something; it's your last straw."


Disclaimer: I own nada.

AN: Well, this is really … dark. I must've been massively depressed when I wrote it or something. Jeez. I don't particularily like right now, but I did say I'd repost everything... Rated M for the very dark subject matter.

Bloodshot eyes pulsate in a massive throb. You can particularly feel the dark bags under your eyes grow larger under mounds of stress

No sleep. You haven't sleep in days. Soon to go on a week, and you're certain the cycle isn't going to end anytime soon. Night after night, you lie awake in a pool of your own sweat. You've counted sheep but one went a astray, and you'll hold out to you reign him in—til you sort out that final lingering thought, the one right behind a gun and burning cigarette.

A cigarette sounds mighty nice right now. The nicotine just might be the only thing that'll keep you sane long enough to have that second thought, the one that always reigns that final sheep back into the "safe" pasture of your uneasy mind. Truth is this isn't the first time you've thought of pulling the trigger, and it probably won't be the last.

The gun's on the nightstand. It's shining and gleaming, like the light at the end of a meandering tunnel. It's hope; it's something; it's your last straw.

It's the option that's always there, the only nice thought in a heap of several unpleasant ones. Pull that small piece of metal and everything's gone. Nothing left to worry about; nothing left of you to be a burden to others. All you have to do is bear a few minutes of pain. A few moments of anguish as your innards spill out unto the floor, a small price to pay for pain you've caused the world.

So much would be better if you were never been born. It sounds so juvenile and melodramatic to say, but it's the damn truth. The second the sperm reached the egg, you forced two people together who were best left apart.

Thinking about it makes you sick. You just might lose your starved, empty stomach, as you lie awake, forcing yourself to think of other things. But nothing remotely soothing comes to mind, and the harder you try, the worse it'll get. Before you know it, you'll be passed out in the floor in a cold sweat.

You can't stop the thought from coming, though. How can you when you've heard you own mother speak ill of your conception since the day you barely knew what the word sex meant? Like she's always said, if she had it to do over again, the first thing she'd do is make sure she never had you.

You've heard it to many times to count, but every time says it, a small piece of what's left of your soul dies off. It tears at you and eats away at your very being, because it's the worst possible a mother can say to her child. A mother and child are supposed to have a special bond, one that's unshakeable. For years you told yourself that deep down she really cared for you, but what hurts the most is that you've been comforting yourself with a lie. She means what she said with every ounce of life in her body.

She blames your father's misleading charm and cheap wine; she calls it one passionate act gone horribly wrong. If they'd just used a condom, you wouldn't be here.

To make matters worse, your father blames your mother's inability to keep her legs together. It's her fault for sleeping with him. If she'd slept with any other man, neither of you would be his problem. He's said worse about her and called her other things, but even though you know the woman hates your guts, you can't stand to call your mom or any lady on the face of the earth such horrible words.

But you were a mistake regardless of who led the other on. You should've wrapped that cord tighter around your neck while in the womb, because the moment you came out of that birth cannel was the moment everything went drastically wrong.

Childhood? What childhood? If you had one, it lasted two seconds tops. Your "childhood" was spent walking on eggshells, making sure you didn't look at the old man the wrong way or catch the old lady after a half a bottle of whiskey before noon.

Sure, you had friends and still probably do, but friends were only so much. They didn't stop the fighting that went on every waking second in the god-awful shack you call a home. They didn't stop that belt buckle for slicing your already raw skin or whatever else the bastard could get his hands for that matter. All your friends were was this nice little distraction to let you pretend you had a somewhat normal life.

You'd go to school, play on the playground, and hope to God the teacher didn't notice the black eye. Lord knows, the last thing you needed was social services jumping down your old man's throat. The second he'd talk them into leaving by telling them you were a clumsy child or that he'd only intended to give you a spanking (he had a way with words, you must admit), he'd beat you senseless for not being careful enough to hide the marks he gave you.

Black and blue, you'd ache something awful for weeks, hoping he wouldn't find another reason to nearly kill you. Sometimes you wished he would. You were young, but you knew it was your fault. It was the only thing that made sense. They fought, and fought, and fought, and when they got sick of fighting with each other, they took out the frustration on you. And there was nothing you could do because your mistake was merely existing. Your only comfort was a small glimmer of hope that maybe your life was some horrific nightmare.

The irony in dreaming it was all just a dream kept you going.

That was your childhood, and as far you're concerned, nothing has changed. You still walk on eggshells, and those friends are still a nice distraction. Sometimes you can snag a night or two of peace by sleeping at one of their places, but that peace and solitude always ends the instant you simply think about going home.

Some home you have. It's rotting and decrepit—from the tattered, dusty curtains to the people who live in it. All you've ever wanted was to have parents who loved you, parents who cared and actually give two shits about you. But these folks you call "Mom" and "Dad" could care less if you live or die, so why should you?

That's the ultimate question.

You've spent the past several hours trying to give yourself one good reason why shouldn't kill yourself, but you've only thought of several reasons to go through with it.

At the top of the list is that'll make everyone happy. The folks'll be free from the burden of you, and you'll finally be free from the pain and abuse. You've spent nearly sixteen years on this earth, and for the past few, you've been trying to fix the original mistake. You've tried being nice, you've tried being the model son, but nothing's worked because the mistake _is_ you.

But as confident and sure as you as now, you've never been able to do it. For one, there's always a voice of reason. This time it's Dallas. Imagine that. The one who probably wants death more than you do thinks he can stop you.

The unfortunate thing is he probably could. Anyone in the gang could, really. They always tell you the same thing: "C'mon, Johnny, you know mean a lot to us," or some variation. And that's where the guilt always sets in. You know they care about you; shit, they probably even love you, but that's the hardest fucking thing to accept. You don't want to be loved because you shouldn't be.

You were a mistake and don't deserve to be loved. A parent's love is supposed to be unconditional, but you apparently aren't even worthy of that. Besides, what's lovable about you? They say they need you, they say you're of worth and of value to them, but you know it's just a bunch of bullshit they're pulling to keep you alive. If they really cared, if they really understood, they'd let you go through with it.

But are they really the one's stopping you? Not a single one of them is there to prevent you from blowing your head off now. Sure, Dally talked you down, but now he's gone and that gun's still on the nightstand. The option's clearly still up in the air and has never sounded more promising. You're sick of having to remind yourself you're alive, but most of all, you're fucking sick of the realization you _are _alive. Pull that trigger once, and it'll solve the world's biggest problem—you. So what's the holdup?

Just like always, you won't do it. You never have, you never will, and it will forever remain a dream. In the meantime, you'll wallow in the depths of misery and accept cruel defeat, because there's something in your body that keeps your finger off of that trigger. Yes, there's something that's making you shake from the very core as you tremble and shy away. It's fear that's stopping you.

That's right. Fear.

You're too goddamned afraid to get the job done yourself. Afraid of what, you don't know. You want death so bad, you've been willing your own, hoping for some sickness or disease magically appear and eats you alive.

The gun's right there, but where's your courage? This is irony if you've ever come across it.

You're not only a mistake, you're a fucking coward, too.


End file.
